


dream of me

by Areiton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes is not recovering well, Bucky Barnes-centric, Character death to old age, Cryofreeze (Marvel), Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, POV Second Person, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:49:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: This is what you don’t say, what is trapped behind the stories told and books read and softly spoken love.Sam never asks you to stay.And you never tell him, that you dream of him.





	dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the second of my birthday fics! It's angsty? Enjoy??

“You don’t have to,” Sam says. It’s not the same way that Stevie says it, all fiery and fierce, begging and furious all at once. Sam’s quieter, sadder and resigned. Like he has run out of fire and fight.

“I know,” you say, and let out the breath that you’ve been holding when Peter disengages your arm. He steps away and Sam shakes his head. 

“Have good dreams, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and brushes a kiss against your hair. 

Steve already left--he can’t stay and watch. Refuses to, after that time in Wakanda right after the war. 

You’ve been awake for almost a month, this time, and you ache with it, with the fullness of that month, of long lazy days with Sam and endless nights wandering Brooklyn with Steve, and the growing terror that brought you back. 

“Always,” you promise, and the lid slides down, locking you away. 

You watch him, until the cold tugs you away. 

~*~ 

The icy cold is familiar and welcoming, like a mother too harsh that you love because you  _ know _ her. You  _ know _ the ice, know the blank cold and endless dreams, and you don’t lie to Sam--

The years you spend sleeping, wrapped in ice and Peter’s tech--you dream of him. 

~*~ 

They wake you. Every time, it is to warm blankets and a soft hand a familiar voice murmuring. You like it--not waking, not being awake--but the difference in how you wake now to your long years with Hydra are impossible to overlook and you  _ like _ the warmth, the blankets wrapped around and Sam nearby. 

Always, when you wake, it is to Sam, reading to you. 

Always, when you wake, he reads  _ Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep.  _ It’s comforting, familiar, an echo of a life that barely feels like your own, grounding you in a heartbeat you get to share with him. 

“Sam,” you breath and his face swims into focus, familiar eyes softened in happiness, tired smile tilting for you. There are lines on his face, lines you don’t recognize, and you make a quiet noise, almost  _ almost _ reach for him. 

“Hey, Bucky,” he whispers. 

~*~ 

You spend moments--days, weeks, rarely but sometimes, months--at his side. 

And then you retreat, run, curl in your familiar icy bed, and Sam’s hand sinks into your hair, tucks it behind your ear and his eyes are tired and sad and you want to ask,  _ why are you tired, baby. Why do you look broken? _

You don’t. You squeeze his fingers and he brushes a kiss into your hair and murmurs, “Have good dreams, sweetheart.” 

~*~ 

You wonder, sometimes, what you would do, if Sam asked you to stay. Steve did and you still climbed in your icy bed. 

You wonder though--when you wait for the chill, his kiss still searing on your forehead--you wonder. 

~*~ 

You don’t feel the years. 

You sleep through them, peaceful the way you have never been, not since Hydra and that damn train and--

You sleep through them, and you don’t see Steve die, don’t see Tony become a father or a grandfather. You don’t see Peter graduate or Bruce and Natasha’s wedding or Tony’s funeral. 

Sam shows you--a reel of unending pictures every time you come out of the ice, and you see the lines on his face, the way his skin has become stretched and thin and his bones brittle, the way the years hang on him like they don’t touch you, and you want to pull him into your bed that time doesn’t touch and you want to hide there, hide where you can be together. 

You smile for him, and you ask him, “Are you happy?” 

He kisses your hair, brushes it soft behind your ears and you catch his hand, the ring on his finger that bears your star, that you never asked him to wear, but you can’t keep from touching, not since he started wearing it ten years ago. 

“Shut the hell up, Buck. Don’t waste time on stupid questions.” 

~*~ 

Time feels like a thing that is both stretched and unending, and infinitely finite--every moment in suspended sleep and dreams feels like a lifetime, and every moment tucked warm and dry and safe at Sam’s side feels like a heartbeat counting down too quick.

~*~ 

“Will you ever stay with him?” Peter asks, once. He’s fifty now, and has gray in his auburn hair, and a sad smile, when he watches you and Sam. You wonder if it reminds you of everything he lost. 

You wonder if he regrets the life he lived. 

“I don’t know,” you say, because you don’t. 

You wish, sometimes, you did.

~*~ 

This is what you don’t say, what is trapped behind the stories told and books read and softly spoken love. 

Sam never asks you to stay. 

And you never tell him, that you dream of him. 

~*~ 

His hair is tight white curls against dark skin, and his fingers shake as they tuck your hair behind your ear. His smile, though--that is unchanged, perfect, yours. 

“I love you,” you whisper and he kisses you, the touch burning against your lips. 

“Dream of me, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

You almost scream, when Peter pulls the lever and the chambers fills with cold, and then ice wraps around you and silence and dreams. 

~*~ 

You wake to warmth and blankets and startling silence and you keep your eyes closed, long past when your vitals change.

You don’t want this. 

Even knowing it was inevitable--you never wanted this. 

“You’ll be late,” Peter says and you look at him. 

Sam--Sam is nowhere to be seen. Peter stands near your bed, his gray head dipped to stare at the floor. “Bucky, you’ll be late to the funeral.” 

You nod and stand and go to see the man you love, one last time. 

~*~ 

It’s different--this time. There is no soft touch and warm kiss, no teasing admonition. Only Peter, and you, and silence that stretches as long as your impossibly long life, and you say, “Peter? I want to sleep.” 

He’s quiet, and then, “Yeah. Ok. Ok, Bucky.” 

Your tears freeze against your skin, when he sends you into the blissful nothing of cryo, and you sink into it, the sweet embrace of a familiar lover. 

~*~ 

You dream of Sam.  

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me
> 
> [Tumblr](areiton.tumblr.com)


End file.
